


Just Look, Don't Touch

by tortuosity



Series: Every Storm a Serenade [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Bondage, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: In which Hawke demonstrates her ability to do exactly as she's told. Takes place sometime during Act 3.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela
Series: Every Storm a Serenade [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1328258
Comments: 16
Kudos: 83





	Just Look, Don't Touch

Isabela was terribly horny.

Not that being terribly horny was a particularly uncommon occurrence for her. Nor was it a condition that tended to go unremedied for long; Hawke was usually all too eager to help, generous woman that she was. Today, however, was different.

“I’m sorry, Bela,” Hawke interrupted, gently removing Isabela’s hands when they began to wander. “I’d really love to, but I’m… completely exhausted.”

Isabela readied a pout, but the new fine lines edging Hawke’s apologetic smile and the lavender half-moons under her eyes halted any protest. Hawke _was_ tired. Life as Kirkwall’s Champion was proving a grueling exercise in futility. In the absence of any true political leader after the viscount’s death, Hawke had often been asked to step into Dumar’s role, in duty if not in name. Though she had little aptitude for it and even less of a desire to play bureaucratic games with Kirkwall’s elite, Hawke couldn’t say no to responsibility, no matter how obnoxiously it was foisted upon her.

While understanding that might be a great show of freshly-formed empathy, it did not help Isabela’s problem. She would have to get creative.

“I don’t mind taking care of things myself,” she said. “Are you too tired to watch?”

Hawke’s brows lifted fractionally, and Isabela thought—hoped—she caught a glimmer of excitement beneath the fatigue. “I think I can manage that much.”

“Excellent.”

Isabela shifted her head on the pillow, stealing a few more kisses while she had the chance. Soft, undemanding kisses. A reminder rather than an attempt at escalation. Like her lips could grant security, trust, all those things she couldn’t give enough of since her return to Kirkwall.

They were already in Hawke’s bed and naked; two steps taken care of. With nothing left to do but start the show, Isabela planned on making it one worth remembering. She made sure Hawke was comfortably situated on her back before swinging a leg over her torso, framing Hawke’s chest between her thighs.

“That’s a lovely view,” Hawke remarked, a slight breathlessness foiling her attempt at nonchalance.

A view fewer and fewer were getting to see. Years ago, finding a different lover every night was a game Isabela played to win; the more notches in her belt, the better. Now that number was dwindling, converging dangerously close to one. But somehow, that didn’t seem so important anymore.

Isabela kept the insides of her knees pressed firmly against Hawke’s waist. She wasn’t about to put everything on display, not yet. If Hawke would be the lone notch, Isabela was determined to make it count. Ignoring the persistent ache between her legs, she let her hands drift upward instead, fingertips tracing down the side of her neck, feather-light across her collarbone and upper chest. Occasionally, she would dip lower: one finger from throat to navel, another skipping along each rib. Nowhere near where she wanted, but she would get there soon enough.

Hawke’s eyes flitted down, then up, then down again, tracking each of Isabela’s movements. When Isabela skirted close to a nipple, she felt Hawke’s sudden inhale, then felt it give way to a sigh as she darted away. Too easy. A combination of earnestness and impatience made Hawke the perfect candidate for teasing.

That impatience made itself known as Hawke’s hands crept up Isabela’s legs. But she was careful not to let them stray too far, offering a knowing smirk when Isabela quirked an eyebrow at her. Isabela allowed the interruption, though the feeling of Hawke’s thumbs absently rubbing circles against her inner thighs was far more thrilling than it had any right to be.

Isabela wasn’t particularly known for restraint, either; by the time her fingertips brushed across her nipple, firm between two silver studs, her skin was aflame. A single pinch forced her to stifle a curse. Maker, this was torture. But at least this torture was shared. Exhaustion now seemingly erased, Hawke watched intently, her hips pitching up slightly as Isabela palmed her own breast and squeezed.

And when Isabela’s right hand slowly trailed down her stomach, arcing over the curve of her hip bone, down to the juncture of her thighs, Hawke’s gaze followed every agonizing inch. Hawke’s hands had apparently also decided to follow, her thumbs applying an unsubtle pressure, eager to part Isabela’s legs like the pages of a book.

That just would not do. “Oh no you don’t,” Isabela chided, and Hawke’s grin turned from wicked to bashful. “Hands on the bed. You don’t move until I’m finished.” Hawke was _tired_ , after all. Isabela was merely helping her preserve her strength, as any kind lover would.

For a moment, Hawke looked like she wanted to disagree, like she wanted to summon whatever untapped energy Kirkwall hadn’t yet stolen from her to flip Isabela over and thoroughly alleviate this intolerable arousal on her own terms. But her spark of defiance was quick to extinguish. “Aye, Captain,” Hawke said, placing her arms at her sides. A captain without a ship and a soldier without an army, perhaps, but old habits die hard.

Calling Isabela by her title was Hawke’s one strong card in her present hand, but Isabela wouldn’t let her satisfaction at Hawke’s show of obedience go unparried.

“Good girl.” The remark made Hawke’s breath catch, the corner of her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Isabela chuckled. Again, too easy.

Good girls earned rewards, and Hawke’s reward was to watch Isabela’s fingers carefully, delicately, _finally_ drag through the wetness between her legs, to hear a wavering moan break free from her throat. Isabela spread her legs wider—Hawke needed to get a proper look at her prize.

“See what you do to me,” Isabela said, more a demand than a question. Hawke saw; she couldn’t help but see, entranced by the display inches from her face. “You don’t even need to touch me; I just think about it and—” And she thought about it: taking as many of Hawke’s fingers as she could bear, blurring lines of pain and pleasure, scratches down her back and teeth against her neck and—

“Fuck.” The word started as a whisper and ended in a growl, drawn out until it was nearly two syllables instead of one. Isabela’s clit throbbed, hungry for attention, and she caved, teasing the bottom half of the piercing resting over it. The novelty had worn off years ago; now it was more a conversation piece than anything—the result of a long night of drinking, an adventurous piercer, and an insatiable curiosity.

But still, it had its uses. She slid the tiny metal ball back and forth between her fingers, each touch of it against her clit sending a spike of pleasure through her, warm and urgent. The pressure heightened, threatening to overpower her too soon; she pulled back, fighting to disregard the pang of want left behind.

Hawke was unusually silent. She was, Isabela realized, putting a monumental effort into following orders—hands flexing against the sheets, a line of tension between her brows, breathing far too slow and even to be anything but tightly controlled. Wound up.

“You’re doing so well, sweet thing,” Isabela said, and Hawke visibly relaxed at the reassurance, going slack against the bed. “I want you to enjoy this.”

“I am, believe me. I just—” The rest of her sentence collapsed into a raw, needy moan as Isabela slipped one finger into herself.

Isabela opened herself up more, working her finger in and out languorously, her knuckles fluttering against Hawke’s chest. “You just what?” she asked sweetly. She received an unintelligible answer, mangled profanity and swallowed pleas. Drawing all the way out, she swiped a glistening trail across Hawke’s breasts, claiming them for herself. Hawke’s breathing, she noticed with no small sense of pride, was no longer steady.

Mustering patience was growing more difficult by the second. Despite her body’s screams for release, Isabela explored herself as gently as she could stand, letting Hawke’s reactions direct each movement—gasps and whimpers, the flit of a tongue over lips, the scrabbling of fingers on fabric. With every thrust of her hand, Isabela could feel Hawke pressing her thighs together behind her, the only relief she was allowed.

Want became need. Isabela was close, painfully close. Her breath came out in staccato bursts, and each new wave of pleasure crashed in harder than the last, building up, ready to sweep her away. Isabela looked down; if she was going to come, Hawke had better be paying attention.

There could be no better sight. Hawke was panting, her face and chest flushed pink, knuckles bloodless while she gripped the sheets.

And Isabela had an idea.

It was a mighty struggle to deny her impending orgasm, but Isabela somehow managed, withdrawing her hand to pry Hawke’s away from the bed. Hawke stared at her with lust-hazed eyes as Isabela wrested Hawke’s index and middle fingers from her fist and extended them, leaving the others curled against Hawke’s palm. Hawke’s eyes widened slightly, realization dawning at last. Isabela smiled.

“Do _not_ move your fingers,” she commanded. Hawke could only nod in response, for which Isabela was grateful; another “aye, Captain” would likely be enough to finish her off.

Isabela eased back until she was settled over Hawke’s hips, cradling Hawke’s hand in her own. Hawke had lovely hands—swordsman’s palms, dotted with calluses, and long, deceptively delicate fingers. Isabela pressed her lips to the tips of those fingers Hawke was keeping so straight and still for her before guiding them down to stroke across her entrance. And when she pushed those fingers inside herself and heard the sound it drew from Hawke’s mouth, beautiful and desperate, Isabela had never felt more powerful.

She rocked her hips forward, indulging in the authority, in the feeling of Hawke beneath her keeping every muscle coiled tight. “There’s my good girl,” she said, words chosen to make Hawke shudder—and oh, did they work perfectly. But her next words were accidental, a whisper tugged from a hedonistic fog: “Oh, _Hawke_.”

Too much emotion held in that name. Too much of everything, but she couldn’t help it. Isabela said it again, moaned it while she fucked herself on Hawke’s fingers. It was exquisite. Isabela was the only one allowed to say Hawke’s name like that, the only one allowed to see her like this, naked and all but writhing in anticipation and frustration, left hand clutching at her red silk bed sheets, right held perfectly motionless, just as she was told.

Hawke was no longer watching the wetness coating her palm or Isabela’s fingers circling her clit. Instead, her gaze was fixed on Isabela’s face. Mouth dropped open slightly, eyes half-lidded. Utterly rapt.

Isabela considered holding back for longer, pulling each crest of pleasure into gossamer strands, but then Hawke’s mouth was forming words— _yes, Bela, please, please_ —and her illusion of control evaporated.

She gave in.

The world slipped away, leaving nothing in its wake but blinding ecstasy and the sounds of Hawke begging her to come. Isabela kept her hand gripped firmly around Hawke’s wrist—a reminder of her orders—and drove her hips down, taking Hawke’s fingers as deep as she could, clenching around them with every heartbeat, every ragged gasp torn from her chest. Someone groaned, low and primal, and she couldn’t tell if it was her or Hawke.

Slowly, the present crawled back into focus. A bead of sweat trailed down Isabela’s back, a slight tickle between her shoulder blades. She opened her eyes—when did she close them?—and there was Hawke, still as a painting, a quiet smile on her face. And so very awake.

“You can move now,” Isabela said, then choked back a cry as Hawke used her newfound freedom to curl her fingers. She slipped Hawke’s hand free before she could enact further revenge. “Rude.”

Flexing the stiffness out of her fingers, Hawke rested them just above Isabela’s knees. “Rude? I thought I was a good girl. You said so yourself. Several times, as I recall.”

“A woman is allowed to be both. In fact, I think I prefer them that way.” Isabela ran her hands over Hawke’s stomach, then her waist, lightly dragging her nails across skin as she went. Hawke hissed through her teeth and arched into Isabela’s touch, delightfully sensitized. “Are you still tired?” Isabela asked slyly.

Hawke’s smile widened into a grin, and Maker take her if getting to see that smile again wasn’t enough to lure Isabela back to Kirkwall from halfway across Thedas. “I suppose I could stay awake a little while longer,” she answered, pulling Isabela down for another kiss.


End file.
